


The House Is Haunted, The Ghost Is Me

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, Rape-Non/Con, Self-Harm, Steve Whump, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-22 23:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Steve Harrington, the popular kid who plays basketball and goes to parties and could have any girl he wants, is an island of calm rationality. Caro Harrington, his identical twin, is a fucking disaster.





	The House Is Haunted, The Ghost Is Me

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently 2019 is the year I beat up Steve Harrington in an effort to process my own Stuff. This is Dark my dudes. Reading it will likely not feel good. Caveat Emptor. I done warned you. The non-con stuff is not between Billy and Steve.

Steve Harrington, the popular kid who plays basketball and goes to parties and could have any girl he wants, is an island of calm rationality. Steve is stable. Steve is polite. Steve is funny, charming, and going places.

 

Caro Harrington, the identical twin of a popular kid who plays basketball and goes to parties and could have anyone he wants, is a fucking disaster. He’s a crybaby. Mama’s boy. Terrified of everything from the dark, to thunderstorms, to the fact that the bedroom door doesn’t lock. Caro is basically invisible. No friends. No Extracurricular activities. Doesn’t do anything but go to school, get average grades, and go home to hide in the quiet parts of the house so he can read. He finds far off corners, sections of attic, when he was younger he sometimes sat underneath the kitchen table, just to be alone. 

 

It’s unfathomable how such different people could be related. But they’re mirror images of each other. Even their parents can’t tell them apart. Because Caro wears the same sort of clothes that Steve does. He has the same eyes, same nose, same glossy hair.

 

Sometimes, it keeps Steve up at night. The fact that his looks alone aren’t enough to prevent him from being a social pariah. But then again, people aren’t  _ mean  _ to Caro. Maybe they would be if Steve weren’t so high on the food chain. They just kinda ignore him. Don’t gossip about him, or tease him. Is that worse than being a target? Being utterly unworthy of attention?

 

Steve isn’t sure. 

 

***

 

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

 

“Doesn’t what bother me.”

 

“The fact that you spend so much time in this house. Like, maybe you should get a girlfriend or something.”

 

“Nobody wants to date me.” Caro slumps down further in the armchair he’s been occupying by the fireplace for the past three hours. It’s a Sunday. No school. Their parents aren’t home. 

 

“Maybe that’s because you don’t ever talk to anybody.”

 

Caro turns the page, not looking up. He never seems to look people in the eye. Not Steve. Not their father. Not their classmates. 

 

“It’s just sad, watching you do this.”

 

“Then don’t watch. Go hang out with your friends.”

 

Steve doesn’t want to, is the thing. He feels bad, leaving Caro here alone. He doesn’t even really like his friends, but that’s not a thing you say, and having friends you don’t like is better than being a loser. 

 

“I enjoy being alone. It’s OK, you know.” Caro turns another page in his stupid book. “Reading is usually better than real life.”

 

“That’s fucking ridiculous.”

 

“Sure.” Caro shrugs. “You drink to escape. I do this. Which one of us has the more toxic coping mechanism?”

 

Steve storms off, feeling fragile in the way only Caro makes him feel. Before too long, their mother’s car pulls into the driveway. She enters the house with an armful of groceries. Steve can hear voices downstairs. He puts on his headphones and zones out until dinner time. 

 

***

 

Caro is fucked up, though. Like. Really fucked up. Steve is constantly amazed that no guidance counselor or teacher has ever noticed. 

 

The guy spends entire classes doodling horrific imagery in the margins of his notebook. Tentacles with eyes, dripping orificies, gore and blood and twisted, writhing creatures that look like they came from a deep sea trench. 

 

He’s obsessed with slasher movies. Talks about serial killers all the time. He’s probably not the sort of guy who’d show up to school with a shotgun. But Steve also knows that Caro can’t grow a beard. And he doesn’t use their grandfather’s straight razor to shave, but he still keeps it in a drawer under the bed. There are ugly scars on the tops of his thighs. Where people won’t think to check. 

 

Steve is the only one he doesn’t try to hide it from. The bedroom door doesn’t lock. The bathroom door doesn’t either. There’s been a few times Steve walked in to find Caro sitting in the empty bathtub, dragging that blade along his naked thigh. Not even crying as the blood spilled out. Just staring blank into the distance. 

 

It’s scary. It’s really fucking scary. But who is Steve supposed to tell about it? 

 

***

 

_ “Caro, chiudi la porta per favore?” _

 

Steve’s mother is standing over the sink, washing vegetables. Olive skin glowing in the afternoon sunlight that streams through the window. She’s still pretty. Long, curly black hair. Large eyes. A square jaw that makes her look almost feline. She’s been thirty two for as long as Steve can remember. Never ages. Dyes hair that should be going silver. Last year, she got a neck lift. 

 

“It’s Steve, Mama.” Steve pulls the kitchen door shut behind him. 

 

“Maybe out there you’re a ‘Steve’ but in our house you will always be my little Stefano.” She smiles at him. No acknowledgement of the mistake, as usual. 

 

He stands next to her, starts to peel potatoes for Zupa. Whatever Zupa it is tonight. He doesn’t ask. 

 

“Your father’s away. Vuoi guardare un film?”

 

“Sure, Mama. That’d be nice.”

 

She pinches his cheek as she passes, reaching for a large pot to start the stock. 

 

“Bel ragazzo,” she murmurs. “More like your father every day.”

 

Steve’s stomach twists, just a little bit. He’s never liked having his cheek pinched. Didn’t like it when his grandfather did it. Doesn’t like it now. He focuses on the potatoes. 

 

***

 

On nights when their father is away, Caro sleeps in Mama’s bed. It’s just sleep. Caro is afraid of the dark. Mama doesn’t like to be lonely. 

 

It’s normal in other countries for entire families to share a bed. It’s normal that Caro and Steve share one despite being sixteen years old. 

 

Steve knows intrinsically, it’s not a thing that should be discussed. He has known it since middle school, when he visited friends houses, and every friend had a single bed. Not a queen, that multiple people could fit into. 

 

People don’t ask about the bathroom door not having a lock. They don’t ask where Caro’s room is. Providing further information beyond the basics has never seemed like a good idea. 

 

“Other people, they aren’t the same as us, Stefano. They don’t know how to mind their business. So we need to be careful about minding ours. Si?”

 

She’s not wrong. Steve doesn’t ever argue with her. Talking back leads to screaming. It leads to tears. It leads to  _ nobody in the world is as mean to their poor mother as you.  _

 

***

 

Caro isn’t mean to Mama. So Mama likes him better. Always has. She doesn’t make so much as a token effort towards equality. Caro is her perfect angel. Steve is a selfish brat. 

 

It’s  _ Caro, mangiare, mangiare, you’re too thin!  _

 

And,  _ Stefano, there are people in this world who have nothing, you shouldn’t be so greedy, asking for second helpings.  _

 

_ Caro, you know Mama loves you. One day you will find a nice girl to marry.  _

 

_ Why are you always chasing these whores, Stefano? You’ll get one pregnant. You’ll get a disease.  _

 

Maybe she wouldn’t like Caro so much if she knew the sort of stuff he reads. Trash wrapped in the jackets of classics. The sleeve from Tale of Two Cities stolen and slipped around the Biography of Ted Bundy. It’s all lurid true crime thrillers and violent murder mysteries. 

 

Late at night, Caro talks about shit like what it would feel like to cut off someone’s head and fuck their eye socket. Steve tells him it’s messed up. And Caro just laughs. 

 

_ We’re both messed up, you just don’t wanna talk about it.  _

 

***

 

Steve starts fucking Nancy Wheeler. She’s small, and thin, with long curly hair and big eyes. She’s got a square jaw. Almost feline. 

 

“She looks like a whiter version of Mama. You know that, right?” Caro snorts one night while they’re sitting by the pool, smoking cigarettes. 

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

“Your funeral. It’s not gonna fix anything.”

 

“There’s nothing to fix.”

 

“Sure, Steve.” Caro sighs. “Nothing to fix at all.”

 

***

 

Steve starts to love Nancy Wheeler. Or he wants to. He wants her to be the nice girl that he can bring home. He wants her to be the nice girl that he’ll marry. 

 

But monsters are real. Caro beats one to death with a bat full of nails. 

 

Maybe that’s why Nancy says that Steve is bullshit. Because his weirdo, scared of everything, brother had to save the day. 

 

Maybe she dumps him because Steve has trouble getting hard unless he’s a little drunk or high, and sometimes starts trembling uncontrollably and can’t finish. 

 

***

 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Billy Hargrove, who punched Steve in the face about two months ago, shoves him against a wall in the empty locker room. 

 

That’s not the startling part. The starling part is that Billy just tried to kiss him. And Steve, quite reasonably, took a swing at him. Missed. Still, Billy apparently wasn’t expecting that reaction. Even if he dodged. 

 

“What’s my problem? What’s  _ your  _ problem? I’m not a fucking queer.”

 

“Yeah, and my name’s Axl Rose.” Billy rolls his eyes. “You’re such a goddamn spaz. Sometimes I swear you’re two different people, Harrington.”

 

It clicks. 

 

Caro. Caro and Billy are doing something unsavory together. Fagging out. And Billy has made the same mistake as everyone else. Thinking Steve is his brother. 

 

God damn it. 

 

“OK—look—whatever happened before it’s not—“

 

Billy groans. “Spare me the existential crisis. I gotta drive the brat home. I only have like twenty minutes.”

 

Then he’s in Steve’s space. Trapping him against the wall with thick arms and a sturdy body. He smears their lips together, rough, and slick, and utterly intoxicating. For a moment, Steve is lost. He forgets the where and when. He’s just floating. High on sensation. On that strange electricity crackling through his bones. 

 

Nobody has ever kissed him like this before. Girls kiss sweet and shy. Their mouths are small. They taste like cherry chapstick. 

 

Billy’s mouth is wide. His moustache rubs against Steve’s bare upper lip. He tastes like cigarettes. Acrid, day old beer. He’s disgusting. 

 

Steve is hard. He’s harder than he ever got for Nancy, and he’s stone cold sober. Still has all his clothes on. Billy’s barely touched him. 

 

Fuck. 

 

It’s like Steve is watching a movie. Or maybe he’s just an empty shell that somebody else is controlling. He tangles his fingers in Billy’s stupid mullet. Tugs. Swallows the moan. It’s easy to grind against the leg that Billy presses between Steve’s thighs. It’s easy to gasp. Kiss back. Hungry like a hyena on the veldt. 

 

“There we go, that’s it, baby.” Billy murmurs, all smug confidence. “Knew you wanted it. You always do.”

 

It’s infuriating. Steve wants to hit him. But he doesn’t. He just shivers as Billy fumbles with their clothes, unbuckling belts, pulling down zippers. Then it’s skin against skin. Bare cocks rutting together. Steve is so turned on he’s leaking. Wet like some slutty bitch.

 

Billy wraps his rough hand around the both of them. Rolls his hips in a thoroughly rehearsed motion. It makes Steve think about other contexts. About Billy on top of him. Sliding inside him. Fucking his brains out. 

 

What the actual hell. 

 

“Gonna come for me? Huh?” Billy nips at Steve’s lower lip. “You’re so pretty when you come. Lemme see it, Princess.” 

 

It’s all gross. The grossest thing Steve’s ever been a party to. Which makes it all the worse that he falls apart with a shuddery whimper and coats Billy’s hand in warm jizz basically on command. 

 

He’s so out of it, he barely notices his knees hitting hard tile. Billy pushed him down. But it’s not the start of another fight. It’s a far more tender violence. The tip of Billy’s cock nudging against Steve’s lips. Salty. Musky. 

 

“Open up,” Billy taps his cheek. 

 

Steve does. 

 

He opens his mouth and lets Billy in. Tastes hints of his own come. Does it count as a blowjob if you’re barely an active participant? Steve doesn’t do much. He just kneels there, holding onto Billy’s thighs to stay upright, while he gets his face fucked. It’s rough. But not too rough. Billy doesn’t push far enough to make Steve gag more than once.

 

It’s weird. Silky skin rubbing across his tongue, bumping against his soft palate. Mouth open too wide. Jaw starting to ache. But before it has the chance to really become uncomfortable, Billy is groaning, blowing his load down Steve’s throat. 

 

It tastes… milky? Maybe sour milk with the consistency of an egg white. 

 

Billy pulls him back up into his feet. Kisses him again. Softer this time. He looks spaced out. Maybe even happy? It’s wild to see Billy Hargrove smile in a way that’s not imminently malicious or dangerous. 

 

“That mouth is gonna be the death of me, Harrington.” He says, like it’s a grand declaration of affection. 

 

Maybe, for Billy Hargrove, it is. 

 

***

 

Steve doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject. But it’s also bound to come up. If Billy starts referencing a hookup Caro doesn’t remember. When one hookup Caro wouldn’t remember becomes three, four, five… yeah. It’s time. Besides, it’s hard to lie to someone when they lie next to you most nights of the week. Even if it’s a lie of omission, the guilt is the same. Families keep secrets from the rest of the world, not each other. 

 

“So um… Billy…” Steve starts, halting, uncharacteristically nervous. This is a conversation that will be hard to control. 

 

“You can have him.”

 

_ “What?”  _

 

The room is dark. Quiet, except for the faint squeaking of mattress springs and soft moans coming from the other side of the wall. Father came home from France yesterday, bearing gifts for Steve and Mama, but not Caro. 

 

Father likes Steve better and has always been quite explicit about it. Men don’t cry. Men don’t startle easily. Men don’t answer to their mother’s every whim without question. 

 

It’s possible that the resentment springs from the fact that Father knows where Caro sleeps when he’s away. Maybe it started much earlier. After all. Mama slept in Steve and Caro’s bed until they were eleven. Just because Caro was afraid of the dark. And Father snores. 

 

It was all perfectly normal. But if Steve told anyone about it, they’d make fun of him. Mama’s boy. Weirdo. Queer. 

 

“Billy has thought it was you the whole time.” Caro whispers, so nonchalant. Like that’s not a bombshell and a half. 

 

“The fuck?” Steve shoves him. Lightly. But hard enough to get the point across. “You’re impersonating me and doing gay shit?”

 

“I didn’t impersonate you. He just assumed it was you, because we were at a party and I don’t go to parties. And well, he’s hot, what do you want?”

 

“You could have corrected him!” Steve hisses. 

 

“Why are you so pissed off? Isn’t this about you telling me you were fucking him behind my back?” 

 

“That’s not—I’m not—“

 

“C’mon, Steve.” Caro’s eyes twinkle in the dark. “We both know exactly what you are.”

 

_ A faggot.  _

 

Everything else about Steve and Caro is identical. Caro is a faggot. Steve has tried so hard not to be. He’s tried so hard to be the son that Father wants. Sports. Girls. Just enough recklessness to be manly without getting into legal trouble. He  _ tried.  _

 

He was probably doomed from the start. Because under the blankets, where nobody else can see, and nobody ever has to know, Caro slips his long, soft fingers under the waistband of Steve’s pajama pants. 

 

Steve’s breath catches, and he’s already halfway to hard, and this is disgusting, it’s wrong, it’s been happening for far too long to protest at this point. This is how most nights end up, when Father is home, and the mattress springs squeal, and Mama whimpers. Caro wraps his hand around Steve’s cock, and slowly strokes it, whispering filth in his ear. 

 

“Are you gonna let him fuck you?” Caro squeezes down around the head of Steve’s cock, just perfect. So perfect. Nobody else will ever know how to do it that well. “Are you gonna let him put those thick fingers in your ass and stretch you open until he can fit his dick in?”

 

_ “Jesus,” _ Steve bites his lip. They have to be quiet. Caro always seems to take that as a challenge. Like he wants to make Steve whine so loud that their parents hear it. 

 

“You’re so easy, it’s a wonder he hasn’t done it already. You’re clearly gagging for it.” Caro’s breath is hot against Steve’s neck. Eager, as he starts to jerk him off a little faster. “Bet you’re gonna beg him to fuck you into the mattress—if he even thinks you deserve a mattress. You’re such a dirty whore, maybe he’ll fuck you spread across the hood of his car, or on the locker room floor. You’d let him. You’d like it.”

 

Steve closes his eyes. Let’s himself get swept away in the fantasy. Billy’s weight on top of him, holding him down, kissing him, fucking into him harsh and fast. Steve doesn’t even care if it feels good. He just  _ wants _ it.  Wants to feel used. Wants to feel scared, a little panicked, confused and delirious with the overwhelming sensation of being  _ intimate.  _ That’s what love feels like, after all. Adoring subjugation. Pleasure with a twist of terror that any moment, the other shoe will drop. 

 

“You gonna call him Daddy when you ask him to come inside you?” Caro’s breath hitches. He’s rubbing up against Steve’s leg. Leaking through his flannel pajamas. Because they both get wet. “Or maybe  _ Nonno?” _

 

Steve comes. He hates that he does. How intense it is. He shivers all over. Can’t stop shivering, grinding into Caro’s hand to chase the aftershocks. 

 

He always expects to feel dirty afterwards. But he doesn’t. He just feels blank. He feels empty as he lies there, letting Caro finish by humping his leg. 

 

They’re fucked up. They’re both so fucked up in probably an irreversible manner. Steve doesn’t want to talk about it. 

 

***

 

“I didn’t know you spoke another language.” Billy exhales a puff of smoke. “Kinda unexpected for a white bread American boy.”

 

They’re sitting on the hood of his car, drinking beers in some forest clearing off a detour on an unnamed dirt road. The woods scare Steve. Because he knows what awful things could lurk in the dark. Because he’s had to fight them. He’s had to forget them. Another secret to add to that barrel in his chest, that creaks with the weight of all its holding. Someday, it’s going to explode. He’s not sure what will happen then. He might not survive it. 

 

“Yeah. I mean… I guess I do. My mom’s first generation Italian. You pick stuff up.”

 

“And only use it when you’re about to come or something?” Billy quirks an eyebrow. His pants are still unzipped, soft dick hanging out, utterly shameless. 

 

“Do I?” Steve blinks. He hadn’t realized. He knew he’d been saying something while Billy gave him a sloppy blowjob. Just babbling. Apparently not in English. 

 

“What’s  _ Bel Ragazzo  _ mean?”

 

“Pretty boy.”

 

“Oh my god.” Billy leans back, cackling. “I’ll have to remember that one. What’s Princess?”

 

_ “Principessa.” _

 

Billy reaches out, wraps his arm around Steve’s waist and drags him in closer. So they’re lying next to each other. Cuddling. It’s bizarre. 

 

“Y’know, when we moved here, I thought I was gonna hate Indiana. Still do. But it’s not all bad.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“I mean—not every day you get to fuck Mr. Popularity.” He winks. 

 

Steve snorts. But presses in a little closer, daring to rest his head on Billy’s shoulder. 

 

“I’m uh… I’m glad you got drunk and threw yourself at me.” 

 

“Is  _ that _ what happened?”

 

“Yeah. Were you blacked out or something?” Billy’s tone has changed. Almost bordering on nervous. 

 

“I… guess I was just pretty drunk.”

 

“Not too drunk to suck my soul out my dick, like, hot damn.” Billy pats Steve on the thigh. Still anxious. Most people probably wouldn’t pick up on it. But Steve’s not most people.

 

He always has to be on the lookout for storms on the horizon. Any abrupt shift in emotion could mean very bad things are about to happen. 

 

Steve isn’t sure why he can’t just say it. Why he can’t say  _ I wasn’t there. That was Caro. You’re the one who threw yourself at me.  _ Maybe he knows it would wound Billy’s pride. Maybe the lie has been going on too long to expose it without major fallout. Even if he’s being nice right now, Billy has a temper. He’ll scream. He’ll throw a punch. He does all the things that Steve has learned to shrink away from, but keeps finding in new people. 

 

He hears Caro’s voice in the back of his head.  _ Nancy looked like Mama. Billy acts like Father. Two for two, champ.  _ The thought is uncomfortable. So uncomfortable it makes Steve down the rest of his beer and reach for the flask in Billy’s pocket. Billy lets him take it. 

 

“I wanted you from the second I saw you,” Steve offers. Because it’s true. Because it's placating. So what if he can’t talk about specifics of a first time he didn’t participate in? Billy is his now. 

 

“Really?” Billy purrs, tension draining from his body. Cock twitching. Starting to fill out again. “Can’t say I didn’t think about fucking that obnoxious smile off your face a few times before you actually let me do it.”

 

“I want you to fuck me. Like—really fuck me.”

 

“Yeah?” Billy sounds halfway to breathless. 

 

Steve swings a leg over him, to sit in his lap. To kiss him. Deep and slutty. 

 

“I think about it all the time,” he murmurs. “Jerk off to the idea of it.”

 

_ “Christ.” _ Billy grabs his ass, kisses him even deeper. “I don’t uh—don’t really have anything in the way of lube with me.”

 

“That’s fine. Next time”

 

“Fuck yes, next time.”

 

***

 

Caro keeps Grandfather's straight razor under the bed. Steve keeps Grandfather’s watch on top of the dresser. It’s a heavy, brass watch, with roman numerals on the clock face. From Sicily. From the home country. 

 

Grandfather came through Ellis Island when he was twenty, with his pregnant wife. Mama was born on American soil. On their little farm in southern Indiana. Not too far away from Hawkins. 

 

Steve doesn’t remember much about Grandfather. He passed when Steve was twelve. So he  _ should _ . He should remember something besides the funeral. Something besides a few strange flashes of sitting on Grandfather’s lap by a crackling fire, holding that brass watch in small hands. 

 

He remembers the taste of orange jelly beans. The citrus, earthy smell of Bergamot. The sharp juniper lingering on warm breath, that he now understands is the scent of gin. 

 

Steve remembers his Grandmother. Warm and floral. Always patting him on the head. Offering cookies. She passed when he was only seven. 

 

He and Caro stayed at Grandfather’s house for an entire summer. There are vague movies in his brain of grassy fields and sunshine. But also something else. Dark shapes hiding in closets and around corners. Creaky stairs in the night. Being terrified of going to bed, and still knowing that the monsters would get him if he happened to pass out on the couch watching movies instead. The monsters were meaner if he fell asleep on the couch. They left claw marks. Bitter tastes. Soreness. 

 

Steve doesn’t remember his grandfather and he doesn’t like to think about it. 

 

***

 

_ The first time hurts for a woman, Stefano. You remember that. You have to go slow and make sure it’s nice for her. She’s giving you something so special. You have to appreciate it. _

 

Steve was gentle with Nancy. As gentle as he knew how to be. He’s still not sure if she was a virgin, but he thinks she was. He’s not sure if he was gentle enough. He sometimes feels bad about it. 

 

It’s hard not to wonder if Billy’s feeling the same thing right now. Steve sprawled across the back seat of the camaro. Naked. Legs spread. Billy’s fingers slicked with vaseline. Circling, but not yet pressing forward.

 

He doesn’t ask  _ have you done this before.  _ Instead he leans down and kisses Steve on the knee, as he slips that first finger in. Steve gasps. Because it burns a little. It’s a stretch. Gentler than he was expecting. Not sharp pain, more of a strange ache. He needs more to form an opinion on it. 

 

And he gets more. Billy’s thick finger, sliding in and out of him. Two fingers. He squirms against them. Especially when Billy brushes against something that makes Steve’s cock twitch. Makes him moan. 

 

Billy grins and does it again. 

 

It’s a hot, shaky feeling. Almost like nausea. He’s dizzy, the world is swaying underneath him like seasickness. Except he also feels that strange urgency, the peak on the rollercoaster before he falls apart. 

 

Three fingers still don’t hurt. They burn like cigarette smoke in pink lungs. They burn like warm whiskey trickling down his throat. 

 

_ “Billy.” _ Steve whimpers. Because it is. He’s on his back, and he can see it’s Billy. Eyes wide, mouth half open, slicking up his cock. 

 

The tip of it is fat, fatter than fingers. Steve tries to relax. It pops in. Almost all the way in. Faster than either of them expect. They both groan. 

 

They’re kissing. And Billy’s moving. And it feels so fucking good, Steve is going to die. 

 

He clings to Billy’s broad, tanned shoulders. Rocking back against his thrusts. Steve is here. In the back of a car, parked in the woods. Leather sticking to his sweaty skin. Drowning in the rush of teenage hormones that feel a lot like attachment and affection. This is how it’s supposed to be. The trappings of enough danger to be exciting without a real threat.

 

In fact, he’s never felt safer. 

 

Billy wraps a hand around Steve’s cock. It doesn’t take much. A few firm tugs, Steve is spilling warm jizz over his stomach. Billy’s hips stutter. He goes still, gasping as Steve clenches around him.

 

They kiss. Dirty. Messy. Desperate. Steve’s head is spinning long after his muscles stop spasming. Long after the fever breaks. He could get used to this. 

 

***

 

“Are you in love with him?” Caro asks, floating on his back in the heated pool, looking up at the stars. 

 

Steve has his jeans rolled up, dangling his feet in the water. Mama is asleep upstairs. She sleeps like the dead on nights she takes valium. It’s easy to move around the house without waking her. 

 

“I don’t know.” Steve shrugs. 

 

He doesn’t know what love feels like if he’s not a cornered, wounded animal. He’s not sure if he can feel it at all. 

 

Mama loves him. Father doesn’t. Father wouldn’t care if Steve and Caro ran away in the middle of the night. He wanted an abortion. Mama told Steve all about it on his fifteenth birthday. They were drinking wine at a fancy restaurant that didn’t bother to card. And she told him that she wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. The doctor had said she was infertile. When the doctor turned out to be wrong, father had demanded she  _ take care of it _ . He didn’t want children. He made her get sterilized as soon as she recovered from giving birth. 

 

Steve wanted to love Nancy. He didn’t. He wants to love Mama. He’s not sure he does. It’s hard to love her when her tongue gets so sharp, and she tells him things he shouldn’t know. 

 

When she tells him she was Father’s mistress in his previous marriage. When she tells him Father didn’t want to marry her at all, and she had to run away to make him chase her. She tells him that love is about how badly someone else can hurt you. It’s about changing someone to make them into what you want them to be. It’s about waiting out any lies and cheating until your partner is old enough to settle down. 

 

_ I don’t care what he does, Stefano. I have you. I love you the most.  _

 

She does have Steve. To hold her when she cries. To listen to her problems. To ask how her day was. To watch movies with her, and go to dinner with her, and make sure she’s not lonely when Father is gone for weeks at a time. 

 

Steve lights another cigarette. Sips the bottle of whiskey he took from the liquor cabinet. Mama never minds his drinking. Father assumes that Mama is the reason for the ever dwindling liquor supply. 

 

“You’re thinking about drowning again, aren’t you?” Caro has the audacity to smile. 

 

“No.”

 

“It’s OK. I think about it too. Just swimming to the bottom and sitting there while the world goes blurry. It would hurt. But then you could swallow water. And let go. And everything else would stop hurting.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“You just don’t like it when I tell you shit that’s true.”

 

***

 

Billy has been drinking gin. Steve hates the taste of it. Makes him feel sick and shuddery. Makes him think about shadows and sharp claws. 

 

But when it’s lingering on Billy’s tongue, the flavor is oddly compelling. It’s compelling in that dirty, gut-wrenching way that most things about Billy are. He looks out of place, spread across Steve’s pristine white sheets in the quiet house. Father is in New York. Mama is visiting her sister. Caro is… Steve doesn’t know where he is and doesn’t really care. 

 

“Will you choke me?” Steve asks, the hot shame pouring down his spine, making him want to cringe, making him want to rub against Billy’s leg until he comes. 

 

“Kinky,” Billy laughs. But he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. Rolls on top of Steve, pinning him down. 

 

He wraps his hand around Steve’s throat and squeezes. Not enough to cut off airflow completely. Just enough to make Steve’s face throb. Just enough for it to feel claustrophobic. Everything goes fuzzy at the edges. 

 

Then Billy lets go. Too soon. Even though it hurts to swallow. 

 

“Longer,” Steve whispers. 

 

Billy frowns at him. “You sure? Like—I don’t want you to pass out on me or something.”

 

“I-I’m sure. Also could we… um… I wanna be face down.”

 

“OK…”

 

Billy moves off him enough to let Steve flip onto his stomach. To bury his face in the pillow. Billy’s weight settles on his back. Feels ten times bigger than it is. Crushing. All encompassing. He curls his fingers around Steve’s neck and squeezes. 

 

Yes. 

 

Juniper aftertaste. Cigarette smoke hanging in the air. A warm, inescapable embrace. Constriction of airflow. Dizzy, filthy, helpless, small. 

 

“Fuck me.”

 

It’s muffled by the pillow. But Billy must understand. He shifts. Never quite moving off of Steve. The cap clicks on the cheap lube they’ve been using. Two of Billy’s fingers go in easy. Way too easy. Steve’s still loose from before. 

 

Then he’s full. So fucking full and stretched around a thick cock. He’s split open. Throbbing. Crying. 

 

“Baby, are you OK?” Billy isn’t moving. Isn’t choking him anymore. Tears drip down Steve’s nose and soak into the pillow. 

 

“Please don't stop.”

 

Bastardized verbal punctuation changes the meaning entirely. Please don’t stop. Please don’t. Stop. Please. Don’t. Stop.  _ Please. Please. It hurts. It won’t fit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  _

 

The movement is slow. Gentle. It’s a wonderful agony. Dragging against the spot inside him that makes Steve all feverish desperation. He doesn’t rock back against the thrusts. He can’t. He can’t move. He’s not supposed to move. He just has to lie there and be quiet. 

 

All he can do is wallow in it. The sensation of being cornered. Being full. His cock is leaking on the sheets. Hands fisted in the pillow. Still shivering. 

 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” 

 

Voice isn’t the same. But it’s close enough. The words

aren’t quite right. But they’re getting at the general idea.  _ Good boy. Bravo Ragazzo. Shhhh, shhh, don’t cry. Just let me—just let me— _

 

It’s faster now. Relentless. This is the worst part. The part where Steve starts to grind against the mattress. Because it feels good. It distracts from any lingering pain. He feels so fucking dirty. He’s a pig, rolling in it’s own waste. Worse. He’s face down in the mud, getting fucked by a pig. And he’s enjoying it. 

 

Steve tenses suddenly. Let’s out a pathetic moan as his body twitches and spasms. He’s coming. He’s coming so hard. With that juniper aftertaste still lingering. Even after he stops coming he’s still shaking. 

 

“Steve?  _ Steve.” _

 

Billy is holding him. Steve isn’t face down anymore. He’s on his side, curled into Billy’s chest, fucking sobbing. It’s an ugly cry. What a disaster. He can’t—he just can’t stop—

 

“It’s OK, baby,” Billy murmurs. Rubbing soft circles across Steve’s back. “I got you. It’s OK.”

 

It’s very much not OK. But when Steve can breathe again he’s grateful they can pretend it is. Because it’s weird to break down like that when someone is fucking you the way you asked them to. Billy looks shell shocked. Like he’s not sure what to do. 

 

Steve doesn’t know what to do either. So they just lie there. Clinging to each other. 

 

***

 

Things change after that. Billy seems to have a perpetually furrowed brow. He’s much gentler than he ever was before. Stops shoulder checking Steve in the hallway. Even stops calling him names. Steve wants to be mad about it. Mostly he’s just tired. He’s been tired for days. Weeks. Years. 

 

There’s nobody he can talk to about it. He doesn’t even know what he wants to talk about. 

 

“Did I like… fuck, man, I didn’t like…do something you didn’t want, right?” 

 

It comes out of nowhere. They’re just sitting in the back seat of Billy’s car, listening to music. Not saying much until… 

 

“No! What are you even talking about?”

 

Billy levels him with A Look. All condescending disdain. “You’re kidding. You freaked out and started crying while we were fucking.”

 

“I didn’t… I um… I asked you to do that stuff. It’s fine?”

 

“Is it?” Billy snorts. “You don’t seem fine. We don’t have to delve into your  _ feelings _ or something. I just—I dunno. Wanted to make sure you’re good. Life can be shitty. Sometimes it’s a little less shitty if you aren’t dealing with it alone.”

 

“I’m not alone.” 

 

“Not sure I’d count a bunch of bratty kids as friends.” Billy runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I know you used to be hot shit and all, but do you really have anyone to talk to? I fucking don’t. I left all my real bros back in Cali. You’re the only person in this godforsaken hicksville who seems to have a soul.”

 

“I’ve got Caro.”

 

“Who?” Billy blinks at him. 

 

Panic sets it. Because. Steve isn’t supposed to talk about Caro. He never refers to Caro in concrete terms. Not out loud. 

 

It’s been a rule for so long, Steve forgot why it was a rule.  

 

“Nobody. Never mind.”

 

“Dude, you look like you’re gonna puke or something. Seriously. What’s going on?”

 

The gears are seizing up. Mental shutdown. Utter blankness. That is safer. It’s safer to just go limp. Don’t fight it. Check out. 

 

_ “Steve.”  _ Billy’s right there. In his face. Holding the sides of his jaw, so gently. Forcing eye contact. “You still with me, buddy?”

 

“I—I’m—”

 

“Your Dad’s an asshole, isn’t he. Mine hits me but… Christ. I can’t even imagine.”

 

“Not my dad.” Steve swallows. Tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He can’t. It’s too big. He’s tearing up again. “My…”

 

And that’s it. Steve is gone. Not sure where he’s gone. He doesn’t come back until he’s sitting in an unfamiliar bedroom. There are metallica posters on the walls. Bookshelves full of CD’s and tapes. 

 

The door swings open. Billy walks in holding two beers. He doesn’t say anything. He just sinks into the bed next to Steve. 

 

“This is… your place?” Steve’s mouth is dry. His eyes are puffy. 

 

“Oh, so you’re talking again.” Billy sounds somewhat annoyed. A feeble attempt to mask the worry. 

 

“Sorry. I um… spaced out? I guess.”

 

“Catatonic is what I’d probably call it. But it’s fine. Well. It’s not fine, but I’m not like—mad about it.” He takes a long swig of beer. “The irony of bringing you  _ here _ because it seems safer than your house is fucking wild, bro. Like. My dad has literally thrown me through a wall before but… I didn’t know where else to take you. And he’s supposed to be out late with Susan tonight anyway.”

 

“I have to go home.” Steve says. Hollow. Trying not to contemplate what’s waiting for him. An empty house? An angry mother? Father left for Berlin on a very early flight. 

 

That means  _ watching a film _ and everything that follows. Except it’s already 9:30 and he should have been home for dinner. She’s probably called the police looking for him by now. 

 

“I need to use your phone.” Steve tries to stand up, but Billy grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him right back down. 

 

“Hold on there buckaroo. I called your Mom and told her we were having a sleepover.”

 

“You did what.” Steve’s too shocked to even inflect the question mark. 

 

“She said it was fine. Sorry if she’s gonna get mad about it. I just—didn’t wanna drop you off when you were all zombied out.”

 

Steve lies down. He can’t bring himself to do anything else. He lies on his side and curls into a ball. Billy sits there next to him. Petting his hair. 

 

***

 

Billy let’s Steve borrow a sweatshirt. It’s a faded burgundy 49ers sweatshirt. Steve wears it to bed every night for a week. Puts off washing it, because he loves the way it smells. 

 

But after a month it’s gone. Not in the closet. Not in the laundry. Steve is always losing things. Letting them slip through his fingers. 

 

His possessions have a tendency to move around. To not be where he left them. Shirts and pants disappear if they get a hole in them. Or if they’re something Mama didn’t buy. Somehow gifts from Father, the scarves and jackets and socks from Europe, all disappear. 

 

Father would yell if Steve mentioned it. Call him careless. Ask if he’s on drugs. How could he misplace something so expensive?

 

“You know she took it.” Caro flips the page of his magazine as Steve roots through their wardrobe for the third time in the past ten minutes. 

 

“It has to be here somewhere.”

 

“The trash got picked up today, dude. She definitely threw it out.”

 

Steve kicks the wardrobe. Hard. It fucking hurts, but it’s better than the twisting feeling in his chest. 

 

He knows Mama goes through their things. He knows she “cleans” every day. He knows she took it and it’s gone forever. He just doesn’t want to accept it. 

 

Usually, he doesn’t ask. Asking doesn’t do any good. But before he can stop himself, he’s walking downstairs. Mama is sitting in the living room in front of her easel, gently dabbing at a still life of some flowers. She’s a good artist. Classically trained. He shouldn’t disturb her while she’s painting. 

 

“Mama, have you seen my red sweater?”

 

“Hmm?” She doesn’t look up. “No, Caro.  _ Non lo so.” _

 

“It was a football sweater. The 49ers. It’s not actually mine. It belongs to a friend. I have to give it back.”

 

The corner of her mouth twitches downwards. As much an admission of guilt she’s likely to offer. 

 

“I’m painting, Stefano. You bother me:”

 

“I’m sorry I just—my friend is going to be upset.”

 

“Buy a new one.” She waves her hand vaguely. “If it’s so important. You have an allowance.”

 

“Did you throw it away?” Steve’s voice gets a little louder. He’s not yelling. Not exactly. 

 

“No. I do not know what you’re saying. Don’t talk to me this way.” She snaps. Finally looks at him. Jaw set. Brow furrowed. 

 

“Mama, you can’t just take my things—“

 

“It’s my house. I feed you. Clothe you. Make sure you want for nothing. You do not complain to me, Stefano. If you don’t like this life I give you, go find a new house to live in. Get some proper work, pay for your own things. If I pay for everything in this house? Everything is mine. You understand?”

 

She doesn’t pay for anything. Father does. But Steve can’t say that. He just bites his lip and nods and starts to slink away. 

 

“No, no, no.” Mama stands up. “You can’t speak like this then just walk away. Apologize.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

 

“Sorry for what?”

 

Steve doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be sorry for. This always happens. He always does something wrong. He feels bad. He feels confused and cornered. He’s done it to himself. 

 

“Sorry for being rude,” he tries. Sometimes it’s the right answer. 

 

“Rude, selfish brat. So mean to your mother. No dinner tonight. You just stay in your room and think about what you’ve done.”

 

“Yes, Mama.”

 

***

 

Mama likes Billy. Which is very different from liking that Billy and Steve are  _ friends _ . 

 

When Billy stops by, he and Mama drink tea, and laugh, and talk about movies, and she’s obviously enamoured. The second he leaves, it’s  _ you shouldn’t spend time with trash like that, Stefano. You can’t play in the mud and expect not to get dirty.  _

 

It’s no different than any other friend Steve’s ever had. Mama finds problems with them all.  _ Stupid sports boys, so thick headed and violent. Grubby punks, they’ll all end up in jail. Slutty girls. Loud mouths. Bookworms with no manners.  _

 

Steve understands that she is not protesting the actual people. She’s protesting Steve’s association with them. Steve having friends and things to do means he could be getting into trouble. It means he could be doing drugs or having sex. He’s such a bad seed, after all. Always looking for the wrong crowd. It doesn’t matter than any crowd is the wrong one. He makes bad choices, so Mama doesn’t trust him. 

 

Billy doesn’t like Mama. 

 

He puts on the act. But as soon as they leave he’s rolling his eyes and muttering to himself about what a bitch she is. Steve feels the urge to defend her. But he usually doesn’t. If he does, Billy gives him the strangest looks. Mixtures of exasperation and pity. 

 

Steve isn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it has to do with those ugly red scars on his inner thighs. The way he starts shaking in the middle of the night. 

 

Maybe Billy knows he’s not getting the full picture. Because Grandfather died when Steve was twelve and he’s still scared of shadows in his closet. Steve doesn’t want to talk about it. 

 

***

 

There are large swaths of time that Steve can’t account for. He’s used to just kind of… being dropped into the middle of a scene that’s halfway over. No idea how he got there. Like a dream. It’s hard to remember details. It’s hard to distinguish cause and effect. He’s stupid. His brain doesn’t work right. He can’t focus on school work the way he should. He can’t focus on anything but the way his stomach twists and his throat burns and the way it always feels like a stormcloud is hovering. Zeus about to strike him down with a bolt of lightning.

 

He’s not sure why he’s in the library so late after basketball practice. He’s not sure why Billy’s there with him. He knows it’s a Monday… he knows that Father hasn’t been home in a week and last night Caro was gone too. 

 

Mama doesn’t like to be alone. 

 

“I… um…” Steve’s throat is dry. His eyes feel puffy. “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” Billy runs his knuckles along the side of Steve’s neck. Soothing. 

 

“I don’t—I don’t know why we’re here. I don’t remember…”

 

“It’s OK.” Billy says. 

 

It’s not OK. Steve should be home for dinner. But that thought makes him nauseous. 

 

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

“About what?”

 

“Whatever happened to make you go all zombie brain.”

 

Steve could say a lot of things. He could say that Mama still kisses him on the mouth. That when Caro and Father aren’t home, Steve has to pick up the slack. He could say that Mama yells when he won’t sit with her on the couch, or that she picks out his clothes and makes him model them for her at the store, or that she was still taking baths with him until he was nine years old and walks around the house naked. He could talk about how he shrinks and crumbles if he sees the enima bag hanging in the shower because of what he’ll have to endure _ for health.  _ If he gets sick, he fears the wide glass thermometer that goes into him again and again every thirty minutes. She only ever buys tylenol in suppository form. 

 

He can hear Caro’s voice, snarky and mean like he’s sitting right there with him _ we’re both mama’s boys, huh Steve? It all perfectly normal, right? _

 

Steve stands on unsteady legs and runs for the bathroom. He barely makes it before he’s bent over, dry heaving. Has he eaten today? Nothing's coming up. Just clear phlegm. Swallowed spit. 

 

Billy’s there. Hand on his back, trying to anchor him as Steve convulses and shivers. 

 

He’s so close. He’s eighteen. Just has to graduate. Then he can go somewhere. Anywhere. He can be free, with nobody asking him when he’ll be home. He can have a lock on his door. 

 

***

 

“You know, you’re never gonna be able to leave. You’re gonna get a job working for Father. You’re going to be here, living with Mama in this house until she dies and you inherit it.”

 

“Shut up!” Steve snaps. Tears in his eyes. Holding the letter of rejection from Indiana University. State. He couldn’t even get into the state school. 

 

“What? It’s true. You’re pathetic.”

 

“You’re not real.”

 

“Then why are you talking to me?”

 

It’s a valid question. It’s always been easier to talk to Caro than anybody else. Caro is there because it makes everything easier to deal with. 

 

Steve knows he’s crazy. He’s not so crazy that he doesn’t know it. He’s fucked in the head. Literally talks to himself. Pretends he’s two people with such commitment that he forgets it’s a lie. 

 

“If you don’t want to talk to me, maybe you should check yourself into a fucking psych ward.” Caro rolls his eyes. “We both know you won’t. That would require admitting there’s a problem. And who’s gonna pay the medical bills? You know Mama wouldn’t ever stand for it. Having her precious boy getting diagnosed as a nut case.”

 

“Stop it.” Steve whispers. A little quieter. He’s holding Grandfather’s razor. Flicking it open and shut. Maybe thinking about shoving it deep into his arm. Opening his veins in a more permanent way than the puny scars on his legs. 

 

“You’re too much of a pussy to put us out of our misery.” Caro sounds disgusted. “Don’t tease.”

 

Steve is reaching for the phone. He should call Dustin. Call the kids to apologize for what he’s about to do. But he’s thought about it enough times to have a plan. 

 

It’s too risky to draw El’s attention at a time like this. She might run to Hopper. Hopper might send an ambulance. It would be a clusterfuck. Instead he dials a number that’s written down on the same piece of lined paper as all the other numbers the kids gave him in case of emergency. He’s never called it before. 

 

“Hargrove Residence.” A female voice picks up after three rings. It’s not Max. Must be Susan.

 

“Um, hi. Is Billy there? It’s Steve—one of his classmates—I just had a question about some homework assignments… I was out sick…”

 

Steve knows he’s babbling. Knows he’s not supposed to call Billy at home. This is a bad idea.  A terrible idea. 

 

“Oh. Sure thing, dear. One second.”

 

There’s a long pause. He hears the woman yelling Billy’s name. He cringes.

 

“Hello…?” Billy has never sounded more startled.

 

“Hi. It’s Steve.” He says.  _ Stupid. Stupid, stupid. _ He should just hang up. “I just… I guess… um. I like you. A lot. I just wanted you to know that. A lot of people are really shitty. And you’ve been nice to me. Mostly. I appreciate it.”

 

“Steve, are you OK?” Billy has quickly switched to incredulous. Maybe worried. That’s not good. “I mean, I’m flattered and all. This is just weird.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll let you go–”

 

“Seriously. Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah. Fine.”

 

“Do you want me to like… come over?”

 

“No. I um–my Mom will be home soon. I should go. I’m sorry.”

 

“OK. Take it easy, all right?”

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I like you too, weirdo.” It’s half a whisper. Like Billy’s worried someone’s listening. It makes Steve’s chest ache. He shouldn’t go through with what he’s thinking about. 

 

But Billy isn’t permanent. Billy gets good grades. He’s smart. Funny. Charming. He’s going to graduate and go places. He’s not going to live with his parents forever. He’s not going to want a loser like Steve around when better options present themselves. 

 

The line goes dead. Dial tone. Steve almost feels like he’s dreaming as he scribbles out a quick note to the kids. Apologizing.  _ I’m sorry I let the monsters catch up to me. It’s not your fault.  _ He knows that this is going to fuck them all up for a little bit. But they’ve seen worse. It’s not their first encounter with death. They’ll get past it.

 

Nobody is really going to miss him besides Mama. The rest of the world won’t have a problem moving on. Ironic, since she’s the only one he’s really trying to get away from. But that’s how these things go.

 

He’s perfectly numb as he sits down in the bathtub with all his clothes on. The same way he’s done so many times before. But this time he turns on the water. Warm water. It’ll make him bleed faster. He wants it to be quick. 

 

If he weren’t such a coward, he’d get Father’s gun from the safe. The safe with the combination 1-2-3. But he’s scared. And that wouldn’t feel right. It was always going to end like this. With Grandfather’s razor. The implement he’s flirted with so many times.

 

“Wow. You’re actually gonna do it.”

 

Caro stands over him. Not looking sad, or suprised, or anything really. His expression is as blank as Steve feels.

 

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He starts to roll up his sleeves. 

 

He can hear the walkie talkie going off in his bedroom. Dustin’s frantic voice.  _ Steve? Steve? Are you there? Are you OK? Say something!  _ El must have picked up on his plans for the afternoon, even without a call. Must know he’s in trouble. All the more reason not to drag this out. He can’t waste time. 

 

“No poetic last words?” Caro sits cross-legged on the bath mat. Just watching. An impassive witness to this final, desperate act.

 

Steve thinks about it. Nothing important to say. He’s never had anything important to say. He’s a waste of space. Which makes this all the more appropriate. 

 

The bathtub is about half full. Water still running. He leaves it on, spiteful, because he wants to make a mess. He wants to fucking flood the house, ruin the expensive carpet with pink-tinged water. He figures it’s OK to be petty in your final moments.

 

***

 

Steve has always liked his aunt Lucy.

 

He likes her because she didn’t go to Grandfather’s funeral. He likes her because she doesn’t ask him stupid questions at holiday parties. She’s one of the few adults at family gatherings who will sit in comfortable silence and smoke cigarettes with him in the backyard. He likes her because Mama doesn’t. Mama looks down on her. Says she’s ugly. Complains about how she’s still not married, even though Lucy has lived with her ‘ _ friend’ _ Selma for almost fifteen years. 

 

He didn’t call aunt Lucy. But she’s waiting for him in the hospital lobby when he’s released. So is Billy. Just her and Billy. Not Mama or Father or anyone else. Mama must have called Aunt Lucy. Too embarrassed to pick Steve up herself. Billy’s apparently been coming every day, trying to visit even though they wouldn’t let him in. 

 

Aunt Lucy keeps her silver hair short. Never more than a chin-length bob. She’s wearing baggy overalls and a faded sweater. No makeup. Thick glasses. She has the same bone structure as Mama. She’s short, and has an angular jaw, but that is where the similarities end. Mama is thin. Lucy has limbs like tree trunks, thick and strong from working on her farm. She has a beer belly. Wrinkles around her eyes and mouth from smiling. 

 

“Oh, Steve.” She holds her arms out and wraps him in a hug that’s soft, and warm, and lasts a long time. 

 

Billy just stands there. Like he’s not sure what to do. But he follows them out the door. Lucy drives a rusty Toyota pickup truck. Selma is in the passenger’s seat. Smoking and singing along to the radio. She never talks much, but she smiles and waves at them.

 

She’s much taller than Lucy. Broader. She wears hand-sewn dresses, and braids her hair every morning. She looks a lot like Ella Fitzgerald. Dark brown skin, wide smile. She has a beautiful voice. 

 

Steve and Billy get into the back seat. Lucy starts driving. A few miles away from the hospital, Billy grabs hold of Steve’s hand. He runs his fingers over the bandages on Steve’s forearms. Not pressing in, just tracing the outlines. Steve kind of wants to cry, but he doesn’t. 

 

It’s a long drive to the farm. Steve must fall asleep for part of it. Questions bubble in his addled brain as they pull up to the ranch house and he realizes there are suitcases in the truck bed. His suitcases. He wants to know if he’s staying. How long he’ll be allowed. He wants to know when he’ll be forced to go back and endure whatever punishment waits for him at home. He committed such a large sin. There’s no more obvious cry for help than opening your arms up and attempting to bleed out. It’s much worse than  _ talking to a stranger _ about the family’s personal issues. Steve was supposed to die. He wasn’t prepared for the fallout of accidental survival.

 

“What day is it?” He asks quietly, as Billy walks him up to the front door, carrying a suitcase in each hand.

 

“Saturday.”

 

Steve thinks about that for a moment. That would mean he was in the hospital for a little over four days. They sent him out with several prescriptions. Antidepressants. Anti-psychotics. He’s supposed to start seeing a therapist. He’s not sure about that. What if it breaks him even more?

 

Billy puts Steve’s things in the guest room. Then they sit in the cluttered kitchen and eat a late dinner. Leftover collard greens and stewed chicken. Steve isn’t hungry. But he does his best to eat. Nobody asks him questions, which he’s grateful for. After dinner, he’s allowed to just shower and retreat to the guest room.

 

He’s not exactly surprised to find Billy waiting in bed for him. He turns off the light, lies down and lets Billy curl around him. It’s odd, having someone hold him in the dark without a claustrophobic undercurrent. Sleep comes quickly. It lasts a long time.

 

***

 

Steve spends a lot of days in bed or on the couch. Listless. He’s missed a lot of school. It’s almost summer. He won’t be graduating, but can’t find it in himself to care. Lucy doesn’t mention anything about Steve needing to go home. So he doesn’t ask and tries not to think about the time passing.

 

Billy visits sometimes. He’ll bring presents. Cassette tapes of his favorite bands. Books. Cigarettes. 

 

They’ll go on drives down bumpy dirt roads. Pull over to lie down in a corn field. Kiss until the sun sets. Steve doesn't feel so horribly empty if they’re kissing. He feels like at least he’s giving Billy a reason to keep coming back. 

 

They don’t always have sex. Sometimes, it’s too much. The world will feel too prickly and uncomfortable, and Steve will try to want it, but then he’ll start shaking, and it has to stop, and Billy gets worried he’s done something wrong. Steve doesn’t know how to explain that it’s not Billy’s fault. Steve doesn’t know how to say that he’s terrified of being alone, and sex is the only thing he has to offer. He’s not smart, or funny, or talented. He’s nice to look at and people want him. That’s it. 

 

His therapist wouldn’t like him saying that sort of thing. He sees her on Tuesdays. Selma drives him. She always sings with the radio. It’s soothing to hear her sing, whether Steve comes back to the car with puffy eyes or not. 

 

Steve cries a lot in therapy. He talks about monsters in the closet. He talks about his dead twin who was stillborn. The twin his mother was going to name Ezekiel. 

 

He talks about Caro, the personality he invented for the brother that was never really alive. The imaginary friend that helped partition his brain, so he could survive. He still doesn’t remember a lot of what happened to Caro… to him. It’s well buried. It might not be productive to dredge up. 

 

***

 

One day, it’s just Steve and Lucy sitting in the kitchen. Both drinking black coffee. Both tired and beaten down by the world. 

 

“Do I… um… is there a certain time frame on when you want me to get out of here?”

 

“No, honey. Stay as long as you need.”

 

Steve digests that for a moment. Looks towards the phone. Can’t help but wonder why it hasn’t rang with a familiar voice demanding to know when he’ll come home. 

 

“Does she know I’m here?” The coffee in Steve’s stomach starts to sour. It burns a little more. Acid sharp, climbing up his throat. 

 

“She does. She also knows I’ll call the cops if she shows up. So don’t worry about that.”

 

“Oh.” Steve nods. At a loss for words like he is so often these days. He can’t help but feeling that he lost a part of himself when he lost his most intricate fabrication. His delusion. He’s alone in the world now. It’s jarring. 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of there sooner.” Lucy grips her mug with white knuckles. “Should have done it the second she told me she’s sent you to that bastard’s house by yourself. I just hoped… I guess I hoped maybe she’d gotten better. She seemed better. God, I’m sorry, Steve.”

 

“It’s OK.” Steve feels like he might throw up. 

 

“It’s not. But you’re here now. You’re safe. And we’re gonna do our best to get you fixed up.” Her eyes are bright. She sounds so sure. 

 

Steve believes her. Because she fixed herself. Crawled up out of hell to make her own life. She’s got a partner. A place to belong. She’s stable. She’s happy. 

 

Maybe one day down the road, Steve will be happy too. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was partially based on a book called “Uncle Vampire” I read when I was in middle school. At the time, I didn’t understand why I related to it so much, or why my mom took it away from me. 
> 
> Title from the Shakey Graves song “Dearly Departed”.
> 
> Shout out to Sara for encouraging me to post this after I sat on it finished for like four months because I'm a coward.


End file.
